


I don't belong here in heaven

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [22]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Dehydration, Fever, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 10:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Bucky doesn't feel well.  He just wants a cup of coffee.  And he wants Steve.His fevered mind has other ideas.





	I don't belong here in heaven

 

Bucky doesn’t know what the nightmare was about.  The shadowy images creeping around his mind’s eye fade as he claws his way back to consciousness, but their terrifying aura remains.

“Buck.  It’s ok.  Wake up,” Steve encourages, latching onto Bucky’s shoulder with a gentle, grounding touch.  “Come on. It’s ok.”

Bucky struggles to open his eyes.  His heart races a thousand miles a minute.  He feels like he’s been sprinting. His cheeks are wind burned, and he doesn’t have any breath. 

“…Steve?”  Panic still constricts Bucky’s chest.  They have to get out of here. If Steve gets hurt, if Bucky can’t protect him…  He shakes his head, a silent gesture for Steve to get away.

“Yeah.  I’m here.  You’re safe, ok?” 

Bucky wants to believe him, but he can’t.  The room is too cold, the bed is moving too much.  Steve might not really be here at all.

“Hey.  Breathe.  You’re alright.”  Steve presses his palm to Bucky’s chest.  Bucky’s arm hits something, and he realizes he’s flailing.  He tries to relax his taught muscles, and everything goes much more still. 

“Alright, there you go.  You with me, Buck?” Steve asks.  Bucky can see his outline in the darkness now.  He’s sitting up, leaning over Bucky’s torso. 

“Hm.”  Steve is here.  He’s safe. It’s fine.  The nightmare is gone. But something’s still not right.  Anxiety hammers up into Bucky’s throat, making him feel sick and choked.  He takes a shaky hold of the neckline of his t-shirt and yanks it down a few inches.

“You’re ok,” Steve murmurs again.  He lifts his hand away from Bucky’s heart.  The imprint of his touch is warm, but the rest of Bucky’s body is freezing.  Goosebumps bloom over his arms and legs and the sides of his neck. 

“I’m…ugh.”  The tight feeling around his neck isn’t going away.  All his fearful energy is crystalizing in nausea that makes the bottom half of his face ache.  Bucky pushes Steve away as he gulps down rising sourness.

“D’you feel sick?” Steve guesses.  He’s good at this. Too good. If he’s a spy... Or a hallucination… 

But he’s not.  He’s just Steve.  And he’s right. 

 

Bucky expresses his assent in a hiccupping groan.  His abdominal muscles flutter as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and makes for the ensuite.  He hits his knees in front of the toilet, coughing and gagging. 

“Keep breathing,” Steve says.  He pats between Bucky’s shoulder blades, forcing his diaphragm to reset and allow his lungs to open up.  Bucky inhales shakily and jerks forward as he vomits. It scorches his throat. His sinuses hurt with the buildup of pressure.  Bucky retches again, then slumps with his forehead on the toilet seat. 

“Alright.”  Steve’s hand brushes up to the back of Bucky’s neck.  It’s comforting and oppressive at the same time. And cold.  And warm. 

“’M ok…” Bucky chokes. 

“Yeah,” Steve whispers. 

Bucky flushes the toilet.  The roar of the water forces him to sit up and get away from the sound.  Steve pulls the hand towel off the bar and offers it to him. Bucky means to say thank you, but all that comes out is a soft hum.  He buries his face in the fabric.

As soon as his vision’s obscured, Bucky loses all equilibrium again, and he tips sideways.  “Whoa, ok. I got you.” The towel falls to the floor, and Steve’s arm wraps around his chest.  He hugs Bucky to his shoulder, his cheek pressed to Bucky’s forehead.

Steve’s knuckles come up under Bucky’s chin.  “You feel warm,” he says. “You feeling ok?”

Bucky scoffs.  He isn’t, but why would he expect any different?

“Yeah, I know,” Steve sighs.  “Stupid question.” He smooths Bucky’s hair.  “I know sleeping after this kind of thing is hard, but how ‘bout I help you rinse up and we lay back down?”

It’s not the worst idea.  At least he’ll be warm under the covers. 

Bucky swills out his mouth and staggers back to bed, Steve supporting him with one hand around his waist. 

“This ok?” Steve asks, settling into position as the big spoon with one arm draped loosely around Bucky’s waist. 

“Mm-hm.”  Steve has to feel him shivering; Bucky doesn’t want to open his mouth and betray how much his teeth are chattering, too.  The darkness of the nightmare still hangs around his peripheral vision, and somehow its threads are becoming tangled up with the pounding behind his forehead and the ache in his joints.

“D’you want me to talk to you?  Or just quiet?” Steve’s already half asleep again.

“’S ok,” Bucky breathes.  He’s not going to keep him awake for his own benefit. 

“…Ok.  You’re gonna be…ok.”

Bucky wishes he could believe him.

***

Steve stirs when the alarm clock goes off at 6:30.  Bucky blinks from his daze and pretends to be just waking up too.  He’s been watching the hours flicker by and pretending his headache is due more to dehydration than anything else. 

“Hey,” Steve murmurs.  “How’re you feeling?”

Bucky sits up and waits for head rush to settle before he shrugs.  “Ok.” His voice comes out as a croak. 

Steve makes a sympathetic sound.  Bucky must not look good, either. He doesn’t feel good, but he’s not about to that and make Steve worry even more than he already does. 

“You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

Bucky shrugs again and gives his head a noncommittal jerk toward his shoulder.  He slides out of bed and smooths the quilt, then crosses to the dresser.

“You don’t have to go to work if you’re still feeling rough,” Steve says, leaving the ‘ _ which I know you are’ _ hanging unspoken in the air.

“I’m ok,” Bucky says.  He steps into a pair of jeans and fumbles the button between his shaking fingers.  If he keeps saying he’s ok, he will be. If he gives up and curls in on himself, his body’s not the only thing that’s going to let its guard down.

Once they’re both dressed, Steve makes Bucky a cup of coffee and a piece of toast.  They’re both decidedly unappetizing, but Bucky forces himself to chew and swallow. The inside of his mouth still tastes like bile, but he doesn’t have the motivation to do anything about it.. 

When Steve has his back turned, Bucky opens the junk drawer and fishes out the ibuprofen.  He tries to one-handedly line up the marks on the safety cap. He’s still shaking too hard to get a good grip. 

“You can ask for help, you know,” Steve says.  He takes the bottle of pills and forces the lid off.  He shakes a few tablets into Bucky’s palm, then claps him gently on the stump shoulder.  “And you can talk to me.”

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters.  “Just. You know. Rough night.”

Steve slowly nods.  He maintains eye contact longer than Bucky wants him to.  “You still feel warm. You sure you’re alright?”

“Mm-hm.”  Bucky tosses back the painkillers and swallows them down with coffee.  He wishes he would stop trembling. The shadows in the corners of the room move every time he turns his head.  He drags in a breath and wills them to still. “I just…wanna go to work. Have a regular day.”

Steve smiles.  “That’s good.” He picks up his keys and waits for Bucky to put his mug in the sink and tug on his jacket.  “That’s a good thing to aim for. But don’t feel like you have to power through. You don’t have to prove anything.” 

***

When he gets to the billing office, Bucky nods hello to Darcy and heads back to his cubicle.  He knows it’s going to be a long day as he settles in his chair and powers on his computer. The ibuprofen hasn’t put much of a dent in his headache, and his body is tender.  The inch of exposed skin at his wrist screams in protest where it comes in contact with the desk. 

Bucky takes a deep breath of stale office air and keys in his password.  He’s only scheduled to work four hours today. He can make it through. But what about after that?  He’ll go home, and it’ll be another four hours before Steve comes home. And another four hours before they go to bed.  And who knows if he’ll be able to sleep. Panic flits through his chest again. Bucky balls his hand into a fist and rests his clammy forehead on it, breathing around the knot in his throat.  He’s ok. He’ll make it. 

Bucky sits up straight again, ignoring the dizziness that clings around his head.  He slowly reaches for the computer mouse and opens a file on his desktop. 

It’s a simple process to fill out the electronic form and file it away, but he makes a mistake halfway through, and rather than backpedal through the pages, Bucky decides to start over.  He’s already spent too much time on this task. What’s a bit more? 

 

He sets his whole computer to reboot and stands up gingerly to get a cup of coffee while he waits. 

“Hey, James,” Darcy says as she battles with the vending machine in the corner of the breakroom.

“Hm.”  Bucky hasn’t spoken a word out loud since he arrived at the VA.  The couple hours’ silence seem to have atrophied his vocal cords. 

“You’ve been quiet as a mouse back there today.”  Darcy pummels the return change button and tries punching in the code for her cookies again.  “Everything going alright?”

“Y-yeah.”  Bucky knows she means well, but he’s getting tired of being asked.  If he were smart, he’d just accept it as a sign of the universe that he should admit that everything isn’t ok.  But…he’s fine. The ache in his head, the burn in his throat, the chill in his bones. It’s nothing.

Bucky pours cream and sugar into his Styrofoam cup.  He reaches for a stirrer, but there aren’t any in the caddy.  He blinks down at his cloudy coffee, unsure of what to do. 

Darcy secures her Chips Ahoy and comes up beside Bucky.  “You ok?”

“I need a stirrer,” he mutters.

“Oh.  I think the delivery people forgot to bring them when they restocked,” Darcy says with a shrug. 

“But…I need one.”  This shouldn’t be a big deal.  Bucky shakes his head, trying to lose the thought.  He can drink his coffee as it is. It’s fine. 

But it’s not.  All of the sudden, the cup of coffee in his hand is revolting, stirred or not.  His stomach clenches, and the throb between his eyes ratchets up a few notches. Vertigo seizes him, and Bucky’s palm goes sweaty. 

“James?”  Darcy sounds far away.

“I…need to stir my fucking coffee.”  Why does his voice sound like it’s about to break?  Why are there stars shimmering around the edges of his vison? 

“It’s ok, just chill out.”  Darcy sounds scared. It makes the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck prickle.  “I’ll find you… a spoon or something. Just hold tight.”

Bucky does his best.  He stands at the counter with his head bowed, watching the surface of his marbled beige drink ripple as his tremors go out of control.  He’s out of control. He’s angry and he doesn’t know why. His body hurts, but it shouldn’t. He’s only supposed to be at war with his mind. 

Darcy comes back a minute later with both a spoon and Sam.  “Here you go,” she says, uncertainly, offering the plastic utensil.  Bucky lifts his head, confused by the frightened look on her face. Then he feels the tears dripping down his cheeks.

“How ‘bout you come have your coffee in my office,” Sam says quietly.  He puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. The touch sends pins and needles shooting down his arm, but Bucky’s powerless to the suggestion. 

“I…I just needed—” he starts, but he cuts himself off with a sob.  Bucky feels like his stomach is rising up into his chest along with the emotion.

“I know.  It’s alright.”  Sam has the same words that Steve did earlier.  The kindness breaks something in Bucky’s heart, and the dam on his feelings busts.  He sobs again.

“Ok, come on.  Let’s sit down somewhere quiet.”  Sam takes the spoon from Darcy and leads Bucky down the hall.  He doesn’t look up again until the office door closes behind him and Sam offers him a seat on the couch in the corner. 

“We ordered coffee stirrers,” Sam says, sitting down and handing Bucky the spoon.  “I promise.”

“Hm.”  It’s the only sound Bucky can make anymore.  The powdered creamer has formed lumps in his cup, and watching them bob up and down makes him feel sad and angry and ill all at once. 

“I know there are other things bothering you,” Sam says gently.  “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but it’s ok to have a bad day.”

“Yeah, I…”  Bucky’s head throbs.  His heart throbs. He’s starting to feel hot and nauseous.  He sets his coffee down on the corner of Sam’s desk and uses the knee of his jeans to force his sleeve up to his elbow. 

“You don’t feel good, do you?”

“I…don’t know.”  There’s a chemical taste on the air, and everything but Sam’s face has a tilt to it.  Bucky blinks hard, and his vision corrects, then skews again. But…did it really? Can he even trust himself to know when things aren’t right?

“I think you should take the rest of the day,” Sam suggests.  “Go home, get some rest.”

He can’t, though.  Sam doesn’t understand.  If he lies down and closes his eyes, that’s like giving the enemy a gun and asking to be shot.  He can barely fight the bad memories when he’s awake. How is he supposed to survive them when he’s asleep?  It’s only going to be harder now that he’s sick, too.

He’s not sick.  “I…I’m fine.”

“Bucky,” Sam gives his head a small shake.  “I’m gonna call Steve, ok? You guys can figure out what you want to do, but I really think you ought to take a breather.”

It only takes half an hour for Steve to show up after Sam makes the call, but Bucky’s anxiety has doubled.  He sits with his arm folded across his stomach, trying not to throw up in Sam’s trash can. 

“Oh, geez, Buck,” Steve says as soon as he enters the office.  He palms Bucky’s cheek. “I knew you had a fever this morning. We should’ve stayed home.”  He thanks Sam for calling him, then helps Bucky off the couch and walks him out into the VA lobby with an arm around his shoulders.

“I know what you’re gonna say to this,” Steve starts, “But, do you want to walk down to urgent care before we go home?”

Bucky’s cold again, and Steve’s arm around his shoulders is comforting.  If he takes one step out of this bubble of safety, the sick feeling in his gut is going to come back.  The moving darkness and whispers are going to come back. Bucky slowly shakes his head. Even that makes him dizzy, though he’s hardly moving. 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs.  “That’s what I thought.  We’ll get some more ibuprofen in you and see how it goes.  But…” He bites his lip. “It would make me feel better if you saw a doctor.  I think you’re really sick.”

“No…”

“Ok,” Steve acquiesces.  “We’ll go home. But if you get worse, you might have to.”

“I won’t,” Bucky mutters.

***

Steve doses him with acetaminophen as soon as they get home, but Bucky’s empty stomach doesn’t accept it.  Five minutes after he swallows it down, he ends up hugging the toilet in the downstairs bathroom. 

“Aw, Buck,” Steve soothes, sweeping his hair back from his face and rubbing circles into his back.  “Just breathe.”

Bucky tries.  He hacks up a mouthful of mucous and bile and wipes his mouth on his shoulder. 

Steve runs the hand towel under cool water in the sink and lays it over the back of Bucky’s neck.  He knows it’s meant to relax him, but it sends a chill down his spine. “N-no,” Bucky groans. He can barely hear himself.  Vertigo throws a shimmer in his vision again, but he’s sure he can see shadows moving just beyond it. “S-stop.”

“We have to get your fever down, Buck.  You’re not keeping down meds.” There’s a note of desperation in Steve’s voice.

“I just…I can’t…”  Bucky hates the way his voice breaks.  The part of his mind still seeded in reality knows what’s happening.  He’s just sick. His fever is messing with his perceptions, but he’s ok.  He’s safe. 

The part of his mind that breeds nightmares, though, is spreading doubt.  Does he know? Really? What’s to say the air of safety isn’t the hallucination?  What if he’s still a prisoner, shivering on a concrete floor, just dreaming of things forever lost?

 

“You’re safe, Buck.”  Steve rests his forehead on Bucky’s shoulder and presses his chest to his Bucky’s back.  “I’m here, ok? I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

 

Bucky tries to believe him.  For a minute Steve’s voice seems louder than the buzzing in his ears, but then his stomach clenches and everything’s lost as he throws up again.  He retches and coughs until nothing’s left, then he dry heaves. 

 

When he’s finally done, Bucky can barely breathe.  He’s too dizzy to hold himself up, too tired to keep his eyes open.  He careens sideways, and Steve catches him before he bashes his head against the wall.  “Ok,” Steve whispers, fear cutting his voice. “Just...ok.”

 

Bucky exists in limbo, only halfway conscious and probably less than halfway sane.  He’s not sure if the quiet hum above his head is Steve, or something else. The shadows criss-crossing his vision might be his eyelashes.  Or they could be something darker, waiting for him to fall asleep before they invade his head.

 

A few minutes pass, or maybe a few days.  Steve pushes Bucky’s hair back and presses his palm to his forehead.  “How would you feel about lying down in bed? Or on the couch? Somewhere more comfortable than here.”

 

Bucky groans and shakily reaches for Steve’s wrist.  He latches onto it as tightly as he can and wills his words to come through the touch.   _ I’d rather stay here with you.  At least I know that’s real. _

 

“I’m not gonna leave you,” Steve promises.  “I want to take your temperature, though. Maybe get some water in you.”

 

“No,” Bucky breathes. 

 

“Buck…”  Steve sounds tearful now.  What are the shadows doing?  Are they stealing Steve from him too?  Bucky can deal with losing himself, but not Steve.  Never again. “Bucky, you have to. I...I don’t know what else to do.  I don’t know how you got so sick, but you have to do this. You have to try.”

 

“I…”  Bucky can’t form the words.  He doesn’t know how to make his mouth move in the right shapes.  He’s crying again, but this time without the tears. 

 

“Alright.  It’s gonna be alright.  Come on. Let’s go lie down on the couch.”  Steve shifts his arms under Bucky’s collapsed chest and heaves him up to a seated position.  The world tips around him and blinks out for a second. Then Bucky’s hearing goes as fluid rises behind his eardrums.  It’s taking him. The darkness has control of all his senses. If he had any strength left, he’d fight. But he doesn’t.  All he can do is let Steve pull him to his feet and shuffle him backward into the living room. And weep. But he can’t even do that.

 

***

 

Everything is a blur of darkness and pain.  At first it seems like an either/or, but then the two sensations begin to exist simultaneously, and that’s when Bucky knows he’s dying.  

 

The living room shimmers away.  The white-painted walls phase into a concrete bunker.  Steve’s muffled footsteps on the carpet sound like steel-toed boots.  When he crouches at Bucky’s side to plead with him over a bottle of water, Bucky pulls his arm protectively around his body.  He buries his head in the couch cushions and tries his best not to cry out. If the shadows hear him, they’ll hurt him. And he’ll never see Steve again.

 

He does see Steve, though, floating oddly in front of him.  He’s imagining things. He must be. Because there’s no way he can be with Steve and be hurting this much.  It doesn’t add up. And Steve would never let this happen to begin with.

 

“Come on, Buck.  Just take a couple sips.”  The cool lip of the water bottle presses against his mouth.  He’s so thirsty. But his stomach burns. It’s poison. And Steve would never offer him that.  

 

“No,” Bucky says with as much defiance as he can muster.  He’s so cold. He’s going to fade away soon, into a realm worse than the pain, a realm of nothingness.  He’s never going to see Steve again. He should say goodbye, if just to the hallucination that keeps fluttering in and out of the blur in front of his face.

 

***

 

The strangest things stand out, and somehow they help Bucky find reality.  The long shadows filtering through the windows as the day stretches toward dusk.  The sizzling sound of the outdated TV heating up. The smell of tea. Those aren’t things that can be manufactured in a lab.  They’re not things inextricably linked to him. Or to Steve. 

 

Where is Steve?  Bucky sits bolt upright, and he’s immediately so dizzy he has to drop his forehead to his knees.  

 

Frantic footsteps clatter over the kitchen tile, then soften as they hit the carpet.  “Hey, ok, I’m here.” Big, warm hands grip Bucky’s arm. 

 

“...Steve…”  

 

“Yeah.  Yeah, I’m here.  It’s ok.” Bucky’s head is so sore he can barely stand to move, but he leans toward Steve’s chest anyway.  He doesn’t think he’s ever craved human comfort so much.

 

They hug for what feels like forever, though the angle makes it awkward.  Steve’s chin hovers over Bucky’s stump shoulder while his hands embed in Bucky’s t-shirt and his hair.  “How do you feel?” Steve asks softly.

 

“I...better,” Bucky says carefully.  He can barely get his voice to sound, but he means what he says.  Every inch of his body throbs with a hollow ache, but it’s all ok.  He’s with Steve. He’s fine.

 

“Buck…”  Steve sounds doubtful.  “You haven’t been able to hold water down.  I...you should probably go to the hospital.”

 

“I’m ok.”  He’s only just got Steve back from the shadows.  If he lets him out of his sight, if they move at all from this single spot, he’s going to lose him again.  Bucky’s not going to allow that to happen. Not even if it kills him.

 

“Buck,” Steve sighs.  He kisses Bucky’s dry, blistering forehead.  “You’re burning up. You’re not even sweating.  You’re...not doing so good.”

 

“No...I’m ok.”

 

“I’m glad you feel a little better,” Steve says, “But you’re not out of the woods.”  He keeps one hand on Bucky’s arm as he reaches for the water bottle on the coffee table.  “Try some water? Please?”

 

Bucky looks at him doubtfully.  “I...maybe later…” he mumbles. He’s absolutely parched.  But his stomach is writing, and Bucky doesn’t think anything has a chance of staying down.

 

Steve shakes his head slowly.  “You know I’d never hurt you, Buck.  You know that.” He takes a deep breath.  “I know you’ve been through...a lot. But no matter what’s going on, I care about you.  So much. You have to believe me.” He uncaps the water bottle and holds it up. “So...please?”

 

Bucky blinks slowly at him.  Steve’s right. Of course he is.  Bucky’s embarrassed to have doubted him.  But he’s still wary about what his own body will handle.  If he falls into the depths of sickness again, there’s no telling how far down the shadows will drag him.  

 

Slowly, Bucky reaches for the water bottle.  It’s heavy, heavier than it should be. Steve spots him with a hand wrapped loosely around Bucky’s trembling one.  “Yeah. That’s it,” he encourages.

 

Bucky takes a slow draught, overly aware of the way his stomach seems to be ballooning as the water trickles down his throat.  He pushes the bottle away after downing a few tablespoons. “I--” he starts to warn, and Bucky can’t get his hand over his mouth before he belches half of it back up over his chest.

 

“Ok, just breathe through it,” Steve says.  

 

“I don’t...I don’t want to go...Want to...stay here,” Bucky chokes in a rush.

 

“Hey, just...try to stay calm.”  Steve takes a deep, slow breath and Bucky subconsciously matches him.  “One step at a time.” He gently squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. “You might need a doctor,” he says.  “But let’s try again first, ok? I’m not gonna hurt you. I love you, Buck. Alright?”

 

Bucky wants to cringe and turn in on himself.  But he also feels safe. The words feel right. He’s with Steve.  He’s going to be alright.


End file.
